House Pests
It's late out. And on a typical night on the side of Cybertron where the crime rates skyrocket, one wouldn't want to be the on the streets. However, for the battered, half functioning wayward Drift, this cannot be avoided. His steps are slow yet deliberate as he makes his way through the crowded streets towards the house of a medic he once used to know. He comes to a stop by the front gate, peering onto the property. Heh, looks like the mech has company over. There are groups of bots standing around casually making small talk. Drift stares blankly at them, trying to gauge exactly how they will react if he just makes his way up to the front porch, dripping blood everywhere in the process. No matter, Hot Rod is fading fast, and he thinks he might not make it if he doesn't move now. He stumbles forwards into the yard and makes a beeline for the main door. When he finally reaches it, he somehow manages to ring the doorbell just before collapsing to his knees on the porch... They are quite the pair. Hot Rod is past the point of even questioning Drift. He has no choice but to trust him, and so he does. He has no idea where he is going, where they are, or where they will end up, although he does suggest at one point, "I bet they're just going to call the Enforcers on us." They look disreputable in the utmost: it's almost hard to tell just how flashy Hot Rod's paint job is, given the bloody spill of energon. From the listlessness of his manner, he just might be wearing more than runs in his lines. Typically, one might find Ratchet at Maccaddam's after work, but tonight was different. Deltaran had just received fundings for an expansion that would include a bigger lab, more advanced equipment, and more rooms for those who had to make extended stays. Ratchet thought he would invite his coworkers over to celebrate as a reward for all of their hard work. They were enjoying tonics made by the CMO when he heard a ring at the door (to be honest, Ratchet was glad of it because Pharma could really drone on sometimes). "Excuse me," he told his friend before making his way through the small crowd and to the door. Because of the recent crime rate, he used the peephole, but couldn't spot anyone out there. "Bunch of pranksters," he muttered before opening the door. The stench of freshly spilled energon reached him before the sight of Drift and Hot Rod. He covered his face, his optics widening. "Oh P-Primus," he said, kneeling down beside Drift and turning him over onto his back. He recognized that face ... The mech with the addiction problem?! Rift, Dirt ... What was it? "Drift..?" he said. "Hey Ratch, everything okay out there?" one of his patrons called. Ratchet looked back over his shoulder and bit the tips of his digits. He couldn't let them see Drift and... was that Hot Rod?! Oh this was /not/ good. "Y-Yeah! Late delivery! Be right back!" he called back, hoisting Drift up by his underarms. He started dragging him towards the back and the entrance to his basement. He first set him down by the side of the house before running over to grab Hot Rod. Drift doesn't even have the strength to say anything. He's leaking EVERYWHERE and so is Hot Rod. Half his faceplates are ripped off and ... uh, it looks like he tried to do a very rudimentary and insanitary blood transfusion by yanking one of his mainline energon cables out of his arm and attaching it to one of Hot Rod's broken, bleeding ones. His armor is scarred and missing in several places. Consequently, he stasis locks as Ratchet drags him into the house. There's a very compelling argument to be made that Drift and Hot Rod are the stupidest mechs in the city just taking into account their, uhm, health. Hot Rod still has his face, but his right arm is a mess -- battered and half-melted, shot at close range by some kind of gun. The rest the gunshot wounds (plural; there's a reason Drift took such extraordinary measure) aren't as severe, but there are rather more of them, scattered across his torso. "Some delivery," he says, scarcely more conscious than Drift -- but at least he isn't quite stasis locked. QUITE. If only Ratchet was strong enough to carry them both, but he had to drag them into his basement one by one. "What have you two gotten yourselves into?!" he aske. The basement was a mess and he had to push supplies off of the berth he had before placing Drift onto the berth first. He ran to the storage closet and grabbed some energon cubes, pouring their contents into a large baggy that he left hanging from a hook. Connecting a line to it, he plugged Drift up and let the energon flow back into his reserves. Hot Rod didn't get his own berth, sadly, but Ratchet gave him the same treatment. He brought out a welding tool from his subspace and began work on plugging the multiple holes in the red mech's body. After a few moments, Drift wakes up, optics flickering but still on. He glances over at Hot Rod, who's not a berth. "Nn..." Ratchet won't be able to tell what he's trying to articulate, but he rolls off the berth and falls onto the floor, severing the line he just connected him to... "Trouble," Hot Rod says around a hitched noise of pain. It may not be the most helpful answer, but no one can say it isn't 110% accurate. He watches Drift intensely as Ratchet works, so he's watching as he wakes, and rolls. He lunges forward -- yes, with Ratchet RIGHT THERE -- which is terrible both as a patient pulling himself out of the way and the fact that he kind of maybe has to go through Ratchet to do so. Also he's getting in the way of Ratchet fixing the line. So basically he's the worst ever, especially since he's scarcely more coordinated. At least he doesn't pull his own line. "Drift -- stop!" "AGH!" Ratchet exclaimed, falling backwards as Hot Rod lunged at him. He hit his helm on the floor and noticed Drift's body /right there/. "Wh- YOU TWO ARE IDIOTS," he groaned and wiggled out from underneath Hot Rod, grabbing both of the mechs and placing them against the wall. "Trouble is an understatement," he growled. "Now don't make me strap you down and knock you out." After a few minutes of reconnecting the energon lines and flipping the berth over so neither one of them could fight over it, he began his work /again/. "What the frag were you two doing? Attacking each other? Fighting in the pits?! Do you realize that if any of the mechs upstairs knew you were here, Drift, they would arrest us /both/?" Drift seems satisfied. He looks over at Hot Rod weakly before letting his helm roll backwards. He shoots Ratchet a dirty look before passing out again. "Couldn't if you tried," Hot Rod challenges, despite the very obvious fact that /yes, Ratchet could/. Strap them down and knock them out? Drift's spending more time unconscious than awake. Settling once next to Drift, Hot Rod keeps watching as Ratchet gets back to work. So when Drift just passes out again, he says, "He keeps doing that. Shouldn't you fix it?" Not only do they arrive bleeding and desperate on Ratchet's doorstep to ruin his party, but one of them is apparently also very demanding. "I only have two servos," Ratchet snapped back. "You're in worse shape, kid, so I deal with you first." Judging from the extent of the damages, it would take at least an hour to repair each of them. Drift would still have half of his face missing and parts of his armor gone until Ratchet could make molds of it. Hot Rod would have multiple patch jobs. "You didn't answer my question," he said in the midst of his work. "What were you two doing? And don't give me that vague excuse. What /kind/ of trouble are you in?" Drift phases in and out of stasis lock, clearly in a lot of pain. He keeps looking over at Ratchet, glaring at him as if to make sure he's fixing Hot Rod immediately and proper. "Are you done yet," he hisses, coughing up viscous inner energon. "He doesn't look better.." Subsequently he stasis locks again. Ratchet may be reluctant, but the only way to keep poor Drift out of his hellish misery of becoming conscious only to fall back into stasis lock is to drug him up with painkillers... "I'm awake!" Hot Rod retorts, pushing at Ratchet's arms. No. Go away. ...ignore all those still-bleeding wounds. Yep. That'll work. "Come on! I'm not answering anything while he's out, so if you want an answer, get him awake." Clearly this is what you want to do to the person helping you out of the /goodness of his spark/. Ratchet groaned when he heard Drift start to speak again. To be honest, he felt pained seeing them in such a state. Ratchet was a bleeding spark, though he sometimes didn't act like it. These mechs were really pushing it with their bad attitudes, though. He smacked Hot Rod's servo away. "I ought to turn you both over to the Enforcers and be done with you," he grumbled, but moved over to where Drift was. There were no painkillers to be had in his home, but Ratchet knew a few tricks to help Drift out. He opened up the mech's helm to get to his processor. The tips of his fingers transformed into miniscule electrodes that he used to stimulate certain areas of the mech;s body. He numbed the general areas where Drift was injured and turned back to Hot Rod. "Are you happy now? Or should I make you both a nice berth with fluffy pillows and some wine? How about I massage your pedes and give you a nice waxing?" Drift is now steadily awake, but only half conscious. Whatever numbing Ratchet has caused Drift is making him feel dizzy and fatigued. Kinda like he's on a drug trip again. "Ngh.. what the hell did you do to me," he says hazily, glancing up at Ratchet. "Aren't you going to fix Rod...?" Anger flashes his in his optics momentarily before his expression turns blank again. "He's dying, you know..." The threat, little meant though it might be, is enough that Hot Rod doesn't quite push as hard. Whatever their trouble, it's the kind he clearly doesn't want Enforcers anywhere near. He watches closely as Ratchet does the delicate work on Drift's processor. He is incredibly still as he watches, wary and uncertain. "What did you do?" he asks, somewhat subdued (somewhat). That has more to do with his injuries than any kind of cowing. He seems very aggressively wary of processor futzing. It would be simpler for Ratchet if they were both out. "/No one/ dies on my watch," Ratchet replied sternly, his optics burning with a fierceness and determination that made it clear why they put him in charge. "I'm going to repair both of you if you would just give me the chance," he added. "I numbed any pain you're having. It's temporary, but I should be done with repairs before it wears off." It was obvious that they weren't going to let him work in peace /or/ answer his questions. He brought out his EMP generator. "I'm done with the two of you and your incessant questions. Goodnight," he said before blasting them both with a pulse. It should have been strong enough to knock them out for a few hours while he worked, finally, in silence. "You're not going to give me any painkillers....?" Drift opens his mouth to say something else but unfortunately Ratchet blasts him with his EMP generator before he can say anything else. Hours later, Drift wakes, the numbness Ratchet has caused still in effect. He glances around hazily. "Rod... Rod! He fixed you.. right...?" he slurs, looking around to see if Ratchet is nearby. Welp. Hot Rod's protest buzzes out in a raised squawk of sound: "Scra--". It was probably gonna be 'scrap' and it was probably only going to get worse from there. The blissful silence that Ratchet receives instead is a blessing. Hot Rod becomes a model patient: quiet, compliant, and maybe a little harder to move, but at least he's shut up. He's slower to wake than Drift. His optics reset with a flicker of light, but the only noise he makes is, "Ngh," which doesn't convey much. Ratchet had finished with the repairs maybe half an hour before the two mechs started to stir. Afterwards, he hurried back upstairs to send everyone at his little party home for the night. He faked an illness, coupling it with the energon that was on his chassis and servos. His friends were worried, but he waved it off as little more than a nuisance. They left and he started cleaning around upstairs. Those no-good mechs ... ruining his night and making him worry. "Rod.. Rodimus!" Drift says a little louder. "C'mon, mech..." He squints at Hot Rod, trying to survey his friend, but the numbing process, like painkillers, has some unwanted side effects. Everything .. is hazy. Man, it's kinda like being a circuit speeder--but not quite. "I.. don't think you're bleeding anymore, so that's... good." Drift slides off his berth and tries to walk around, but only succeeds in walking into a wall. "Ugh. I think I feel worse than when I was bleeding out." Sitting up, Hot Rod passes a hand down his side and finds each and every wound now sealed by a more than able hand. The skill is evident, even to him, despite the suddenness and surroundings. Fancy medical center with full operating theatre? Ratchet don't need that. Drift walking into a wall pulls his attention away from his own review and he stares at him. "Maybe you should sit down. I'll go find him, make him fix whatever he did to your head." Just as soon as he stands. Instantly, Drift is by Hot Rod's side. He grabs Hot Rod's shoulder and makes him sit back down. "No," he says. "You shouldn't. You're not going anywhere." Ratchet heard the commotion going on downstairs and figured that the mechs were starting to come to now. He figured he'd let them adjust before he went down to check on them. Knowing those idiots, they would find a way to injure themselves again. The thought made the medic groan. He'd have to go check on them wouldn't he? And just when he was nearly done cleaning and ready to relax, too. "You walked into a wall," Hot Rod protests. That he even lets ('lets') Drift sit him back down says more about his actual state than what he tries to argue. He vents an unhappy noise and then settles back. "So what's your history here? Why this mech? He's obvious good. And obviously well-off." "....I ...did?" Drift says very slowly. "Huh, must have barely felt it. Mech, c'mon. You can't expect me just remember all of this stuff in .. the blink of an optic," he slurs, "That was hella long time ago..." The hand on Hot Rod's shoulder is very firm. A little too firm. "Just relax. I.. think he's gonna take care of us..." Then he starts giving Hot Rod a back massage. Slag, he knows how to hit the spot too, it feels fabulous and Hot Rod will feel a good portion of the tension in his servos draining out of him. Unfortunately Hot Rod never knew Drift during his druggie days--so this will be a first hand experience of what hippie Drift is like. "Long as he doesn't take care of us right into Enforcer custody," Hot Rod mutters. "Who knows what he could've done while we were out." So suspicious! He's already watching Drift a little uneasily for the slurring that follows the face-meets-wall routine; the over-firm hand and lingering touch only makes him even more wary. Clear worry fights amazing massage to keep him from really relaxing. He catches Drift's arm, briefly stilling him. "Hey, you feeling okay?" "... yeah, I feel amazing," he says, batting Hot Rod's arm away. He uses both hands now to continue giving him a massage. "Mech, relax already. I know this guy. He talks slag all the time but he doesn't mean it. He won't do it." Drift looks kind of like he might stasis lock again though. "Are you better?" Ratchet took the time to come down to the basement in that moment. He opened the door and stepped down, only to see Drift giving Hot Rod a massage. "....." All he could do was stare at them, a very confused and slightly horrified look on his face. Rather than relax, Hot Rod only gets more wound up: "Yeah, I just bet you feel amazing. Yeah, I'm better, but I'm worried about you." He does nothing that would make this any less awkward for Ratchet to walk in. In fact, the way he starts in surprise only makes it worse. "What did you do!" "Hey!" Drift startles when Hot Rod sits up straighter. He looks up at Ratchet as he walks into the room. "Dooc," he slurs. He meanders over to the medic and attempts to give him a massage. "Thanks for fixing us... must have been hella work, hope this makes you feel better.." "What did /I/ do?" Ratchet asked, his jaw dropping. "Besides /save your life/? Look, I'm not going to judge your sexual preferences, but you need to take that scrap somewhere else. I will /not/ tolerate it in my house." He scoffed. Maybe Pharma was right and he /should/ stop drinking. He shook his helm. "I don't have any painkillers here, so I just numbed the areas where he was feeling pain. It was supposed to wear off, but because of Drift's past experiences with circuit boosters, it's probably lasting longer than I intended." Rolling his optics, he approached the white mech, only to back away when he reached out his servos for the medic. "/Whoa/," he said. "Don't you dare start touching /me/ now. Sit down and I'll set your helm on straight. Either that or I'll smack the pain back into you." Hot Rod stares at Ratchet. What. "What!" WHAT. When Drift turns to share the love, Hot Rod goes, "Ha! Yeah, I'm not judging /your/ preferences," right back at him all obnoxiously. Like. Really obnoxiously. "Do you even know what you're doing messing around with his processor like that? Fix him!" "Dude, how else am I going to pay this medical bill?" Drift slurs, backing off. "I don't have any money." Which isn't true. He's kind of loaded--yeah, being an assassin pays off. But he isn't about to say that in front of Ratchet. Drift sits down, looking tired. "Rod, just forget it. I'm--I'm fine. Really." "You obviously don't remember that I run a /free/ clinic," Ratchet said. "Don't give me your credits or ... weird favors. I don't need them." He carefully approached the mech then and reopened his helm to the processor. "Sit still," he instructed before beginning to reverse the process. Hot Rod might be battered halfway to hell and back, scarcely patched up enough to stand, but he gets fired right up with no regard for health. He's not fired up enough to do anything, really, but he sounds really emphatic when he says, "Then /I'll/ pay." He's the opposite of loaded, but he seems to take Drift at his word about not having any money, despite everything else he knows about him. (Maybe Ratchet takes credit.) Oh, free. Whew. They are saved. "Are you?" he asks Drift, watching Ratchet with an itchy twitch of his fingers as he curls them to form loose fists. "You don't want weird favors?" Drift says, sounding confused. "C'mon what's wrong with weird favors--! Besides, it's /not/ a weird favor." But when Ratchet reopens his helm he flinches and bats the medic aside. "No! Ow!! It hurts.. stop!" he says, cringing. "You should make sure Rod is fine, not me, I'm fine, don't do anything to me..." Ratchet stops for the moment and sighs. "I can tell that Hot Rod is fine," he assures. "Relatively. Though I suggest you both stay here for the time being until you're fully healed." He rested a servo on Drift's shoulder. "You're going to feel some pain lingering from the repairs, but you have to let me do it. You don't want to become that mech nearly permanently burned out due to boosters, do you? I already told you there's a better calling out there for you." Yes, Hot Rod just told (asked. no, told.) Ratchet to go over there and fix Drift. Yes, his immediate demand, "Hey, knock it off!" is stunningly at odds with that. What is there to say? He's fickle. The protest is enough to get him moving over to stand by them. He does not fall apart in moving. He doesn't seem to /love/ moving, but he manages. "Look, I'm okay. Now shut up and let him fix you. If he knows what he's doing." "NO!" Drift insists, moving away from Ratchet. "I'm fine. Don't touch me," he hisses, starting to sound more like his old self. "That hurts. So leave me alone. I was fine before you started messing with my head." He glares at the two of them. "I don't need fixing," he reasserts. Ratchet looked insulted by Hot Rod's words. "Of course I know what I'm doing!" he barked back. "I studied at the Iaconian Academy of Science! I'm the Chief Medical Officer! Don't question my abilities!" He huffed. "Drift, I can knock you out again if you're going to be difficult." "I'm not questioning your abilities," Hot Rod says, the words hissing off in sharp edges. "I've just seen a lot of those kinds of /abilities/ used for the /wrong ends/." When Drift tries to pull away from Ratchet, Hot Rod is there to keep him in place with a hand on his shoulder. No massage. He'd probably suck at it, anyway. It's just a hand, a lean, and steady pressure as he settles next to him. "Just let him look, okay?" "I. Said. Leave me!" Drift growls dangerously, rising up. He punches Ratchet in the faceplates, then shoves Hot Rod away with considerable force. "Can't you damn idiots take a hint?" he snarls. "I couldn't live with myself if I ever used my gifts in such a manner," the medic replied. "My purpose is to heal, nothing more, nothing less." He watches as Hot Rod tries to convince Drift to let him operate, but is shocked to feel Drift's fist in his face and his aft flipping over the berth and hitting the floor. "Agh!" he exclaims, sitting up and wiping the energon that was now dripping from his lip components. He stood up, looking furious and ... hurt? It was hard to tell. He pointed towards the door. "THAT'S IT! OUT, THE BOTH OF YOU UNGRATEFUL HEATHENS!" Hot Rod thumps back against the wall with a hand to his side. He stares at Drift a little disbelievingly, then at Ratchet all wounded innocence. "What? I was helping!" How could Ratchet think him ungrateful. It's a real mystery. Drift just looks at them angrily for a moment. Then, after a moment, his expression changes. He meets Hot Rod's disbelieving gaze and it suddenly seems to dawn on him that he has caused Hot Rod more pain. He looks over at a infuriated Ratchet, his demeanor crumbling. "N-No.. what have I done? What would Gasket think... I..." And then he's suddenly off like a rocket, running straight into the elevator at the end of the hallway. "Good riddance," Ratchet mumbles under his breath. "Get out," he told Hot Rod again, his voice quieter this time. "Don't ever come back here again. Neither of you. There will be no help for you here." That was a lie if there ever was one. Ratchet was too nice to ever turn away someone who needed his help, but he said it anyway. "You -- fragger!" Hot Rod shouts after Drift, who is moving faster than he can catch up. He hangs back a moment more to meet Ratchet's gaze. "I won't be back. But I'll remember this." The words are threatening; the tone is grateful. He could just say 'thanks'. He doesn't. ...then he limps off. Ugh, stupid Drift and his stupid rocketing off. Hot Rod will probably have to stand there awkwardly with Ratchet staring at his back waiting for the elevator to get back down. Everything is terrible. While he's standing there awkwardly waiting for the elevator, Hot Rod may notice through the window right next to him that Drift has gone up to the highest floor and is climbing out of a window up onto the rooftop. Why is he doing that? Well, maybe he wants to kill himself again. Heh, who'd have thought?! Ratchet didn't say anything in response to Hot Rod. He just started to pick up the mess that the two mechs had created in his basement. Somehow he didn't think that Drift was just going to leave his house. The mech seemed awfully concerned about this Gasket fellow. He vaguely remembered Drift talking about it. With a little groan, he walks over to the elevator and stands next to Hot Rod without a word. Now they're both waiting for it. Hot Rod bangs his head on the door because that's a good idea, mashes the button harder because that makes the elevator faster, then -- stops. He glances over at Ratchet. He studies him with a narrowed gaze. When the elevator arrives, Hot Rod aggressively thumbs the button for the top floor. That is /not/ the way out. "Drift's on the roof." Hey. Ratchet. Stranger wandering through your house, climbing out your windows, scrambling onto the roof: he's cool with that, right? Hope so! Because that's what Hot Rod does, following Drift's path as exactly as he can. He's pushing it, with the pace -- moving faster than may be medically advised given welds so recently sealed, patches so freshly applied. Yep, he's standing on the edge of the roof, staring down at the dark alley below. Directly below him is a scrap disposal, filled to the top with glass-like shards sharper than a gladiator's axe. His expression is blank and dull, and he doesn't even register that Hot Rod is moving towards him. Ratchet doesn't have the time to argue with either of these mechs. He follows Hot Rod into the elevator, annoyed by his mashing of the buttons but staying quiet for the most part. Once they are out on the roof, he immediately brings out his EMP generator again. There was no way he was going to let those two idiots injure themselves after he /just/ repaired them. So he blasted Hot Rod with a pulse and caught him to lay him down before chasing after Drift. "What are you doing, you lunatic? Get back from there!" "Drift--." Hot Rod's out before he gets any farther than the name. He never saw that coming. Never trust an angry doctor. Well, that works too. As soon as Drift sees a stasis locked Hot Rod, it's like a bomb went off inside his head or something. "You fragger!" He rages, and turns on Ratchet, fists clenched. He tries to wrestle the EMP generator from Ratchet but is in no shape to do anything of the sort. So he'll just have to settle for shoving him angrily before running to Hot Rod's side and once again picking him up like a little child. Good thing Hot Rod isn't awake. Thank Primus. Ratchet would rather Drift be extremely angry with him than see the mech end his life. A mech with so much promise that he was too blind to see just yet. He wrestled with Drift for a moment before he's shoved away and nearly stumbles right off of the edge of his own home. "Ack! I didn't injure him!" he assured. "He--" Telling Drift that Hot Rod was injuring himself for Drift's sake would /not/ make this problem better, he realized. "He was annoying the frag out of me," he finished quietly. "You two need to leave ... the /normal/ way through the front door. Don't even think about fraggin' ending your life, kid. I doubt that would make your friend Gasket happy. It would be an insult more than anything." While Hot Rod might not be bleeding again -- he is SO DONE with bleeding -- there are subtle signs where he'd stressed the recent repairs. But they are just that, subtle, and it's not hard at all to believe Ratchet's take on things. He'll just ... ragdoll. Not like he gets a say in what door Drift takes. "No," Drift growls at the Doctor. "I'm not leaving until he's totally healed." He carries Hot Rod to the elevator, ignoring the rest of Ratchet's words. He takes Hot Rod to the main floor this time, and instead of putting Hot Rod on a berth, he puts him on Ratchet's own personal recharge slab. Then, he sits down on the end of the recharge slab and waits patiently for Hot Rod to wake up. Ratchet wanted to knock them both out and just toss them on the back of a transport unit and be done with it. However, he found himself following Drift back inside. When Drift set Hot Rod on his berth, his jaw dropped. "I have a guest room!" he bellowed, wanting to tear his wiring out. "Look, you /both/ need a few solar cycles to fully heal," he said. "And you both need your armor remolded. Go to Deltaran. One of the medics on duty will take you in and let you stay in one of the rooms until you're better, but you can't stay here. I mean it, Drift." Nope. Not moving. Hot Rod settles in nice and cozy (and OUT) with that sort of all-but-melting-into-the-slab heaviness that only comes with a really /nice/ berth. Much in the way that cats will be impossible to move a few million years from now, Hot Rod sinks in cozily to nap through the argument. Mmm, cozy berth. Drift just folds his arms and gives Ratchet a really pouty sad look. "I meant it too, when I said I'm not leaving until he's fully healed." He leans against the wall. "Oh really. Does he know I'm a wanted vigilante? With fifty million shanix on his helm? Is it free?" He peppers Ratchet with questions. "Fifty m--" Ratchet groaned. The medics there would likely /not/ help Drift in that case. What had the medic gotten himself into this time helping these infidels? "Why should I let you stay here after the way you treated my hospitality? I won't be taken advantage of again!" Hot Rod stirs, like maybe the edge of Ratchet's hit is wearing off, but he doesn't pop awake. Maybe he's just getting cozy. Totally not moving. "Because." That's all Drift says, starting to look very comfortable on Ratchet's berth. In fact, it's big enough for both Hot Rod and Drift, so Drift takes the liberty of curling up by Hot Rod's feet on the far end of the berth. Ratchet clenched his fists. "YOU'RE ON /MY/ BERTH," he says loudly. "Go to the basement or the guest room or something. Just /not in here/." He was growing weary just watching them get all comfortable on his berth. Tucking his feet against Drift all nice and cozy, Hot Rod mumbles something that sure sounds a lot like, "--quiet." The yelling is disturbing his nap. "Way to state the obvious, genius," Drift says, before putting his helm down, his triangular helm extensions twitching like cat ears. That's Drift body language for, 'I am very comfortable. If you move me, I might stab you.' Surely the doctor won't move them! Awww, look at them Ratchet, they're so cute, curled up and cozy on your berth together! Ratchet's optic twitches as the mechs just shrug him off. "FINE!" he shouts before stomping out of his room and slamming the door behind him. He had half a mind to flip the berth they were lying on, but he couldn't fight off /anyone/ despite how injured they might be. Instead, he storms to the guest room and slams that door. Climbing onto the berth, he punches the slab of metal repeatedly before collapsing face-down onto it. And that's where he's going to spend the rest of the night, feeling like crud.